


we got them commas and them decimals

by founders



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Financial Issues, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, trans hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/founders/pseuds/founders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Alexander scrimps and Alexander saves and John and Gilbert watch him with worried eyes, try to pay for things on the sly, try to get him to take their money, make his life easier, but Alexander is built on one pillar named <em>pride</em> and another named <em>honour</em> and won’t hear of it, not for a second. He snarls and glares at them, his spine prickling up as he turns his back on them, and John and Gilbert are left helplessly holding limp notes in their hands and watching him walk away."</p><p>.</p><p>The One Where john and gilbert are rich and don't quite understand what it's like to be poor, but it's okay, because john can just throw money at the problem and it will magically fix itself. or not, as he finds out</p><p>[author name used to be rosenbergs]</p>
            </blockquote>





	we got them commas and them decimals

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title for this was: how many clipping. lyrics can i slip in without people noticing?
> 
> content warning: they smoke weed, menstruation is mentioned/on screen (not graphic though), fighting is mentioned/on screen (not graphic either), there's a theme of financial differences between the characters, john laurens is a bit of a dick for a little while, and also some brief somnophilia and edging so have fun with that!
> 
> if you've got a problem with trans characters then. i don't want to be associated with you lmao bye

John’s not fucking blind, okay, he’s not stupid, he’s actually quite smart, and being in such a close relationship with both Alexander and Gil, tangled together and draped all over each other, skin and lips and teeth and tongues, shared clothing and shared beds and shared lube, means that he picks up on a few things, sometimes.

Like, for instance: John and Gil have money, whereas Alexander does not.

He’s not flat out broke, hustling on the streets, picking pockets, but he’s… frugal. He winces at the price tags on clothes when Gil drags him shopping, he clutches his wallet with tight fingers and white knuckles when they go out on dates, he uses a pay-as-you-go mobile, a fucking flip phone of all things, instead of the latest shiny iPhone that Gil and John throw about and swipe their dirty, grimy, filthy fucking rich fingers all over.

Alexander is, for lack of a better word, poor. He’s an orphan immigrant, with few connexions and even fewer who would bother to acknowledge him, and he’s here in the States on a shaky visa and a cobbled together scholarship that makes his lips go tight around the edges whenever someone brings it up. John remembers how Alexander had juggled two jobs plus his classes in his freshman year, how it had almost killed him.

Gilbert had cornered him one day, lips pressed together in a thin line, up against the wall and for half a second John had thought it was for another reason, had angled his hips towards Gil’s and let his eyes go half lidded, but Gil had made a clucking noise in the back of his throat, annoyed.

“Jack,” he’d said, sharp. “Jack, Jack, we need to talk to Hammie, soon. I’m worried he’s going to work himself into the ground. He barely eats, doesn’t sleep, and he’s skipping classes. He could be cut of his scholarship, be sent back, we could lose him.”

John had frowned, stroked a finger over Gil’s worried forehead. “I’ll talk to him,” he’d said, “Don’t worry, we’ll not lose him.”

Gil had pouted and John laughed, pushed his thumb up against Gil’s lips, and Gil sucked the digit in. Things had deteriorated rapidly from there, Gil’s eyes dark, his knuckles bruising John’s skin, the scrape and sting of fingernails raising blood to the surface.

Alexander had raised his eyebrows at them when he stumbled in, taking in John’s disheveled state, shirt torn, eyes glassy, and Gil’s sharp smirk. He’d flopped into bed with them, buried his nose into the dip in Gil’s neck where his sweat had gathered, giggled as John came back to himself and muttered under his breath about ruined clothing.

“I’ll buy you another one,” Gil had mumbled, pressed a kiss into Alexander’s hair. John whined.

“How come you’re always nice to Hammie and not to me?” and Alexander and Gil snorted in unison, Alexander’s foot kicking out and connecting painfully with John’s shin.

“Jack, the day you ask for _nice_ from Gil is the day I win the lottery,” Alexander muttered and John pouted, pushed his face between Alexander’s shoulder blades, wrapped him up in his arms and pulled him away from Gil.

Thus ensued a small wrestling match over who would get to cuddle Alexander ending up with John resting his forehead on the give of Alexander’s round tummy, arms around his thighs, and Gilbert pressed up against his back, arms around Alexander’s waist and stroking at John’s hair carefully, lest John snap and snarl and try to bite at him.

He didn’t get around to talking to Alexander that night, neither of them did. It took until Alexander collapsed one day on the sidewalk, Gilbert peeling his lids back to find bloodshot eyes, the hospital putting him on a drip and John discreetly paying the bill for them to sit him down and insist that he _stop._

“Move out of the dorms,” John said, “Move in with us. You can stop having to pay for accommodation, we’ll take care of it, please stop exhausting yourself. You burned out, it’s okay, we’re here, we’ll take care of you,” and Alexander had blinked up at them mournfully, tightened his hand around Gil’s, and mumbled an affirmative.

Gil had, of course, gone a little wild and splashed out on the biggest bed John had ever seen, a new mattress, new sheets, to celebrate what he called the _official consummation of their relationship._ John had snorted, reminded him that they’d consummated their relationship many times, and Gil had smacked him around the back of the head and dived onto the bed, prompting John to growl and jump on top of him, dig his fingers into his sides.

Alexander had followed slowly, carefully, visibly uncomfortable in his new home despite John and Gil doing everything they could to make him comfortable. It doesn’t occur to him until much later that maybe them trying to make Alexander _comfortable_ was making him _uncomfortable,_ that all their efforts turned out to be them throwing money at the problem and hoping it would go away.

To be fair, John and Gilbert have lead lives where no problem can’t be solved with money. John’s father all but pays him to keep quiet about his deviant and delinquent lifestyle and Gilbert was probably born with a credit card in hand. Alexander is different. Alexander comes from a tiny island and a tiny family with a tiny bank account, no luxuries, no expenses, sometimes, even, no food. He’d told John late at night that when his mother died her first husband took everything, and he was left with only thirty four books that were kindly bought back for him and a few pieces of silverware. _Spoons,_ he’d whispered, _silver spoons,_ and John had tried not to drown in the irony of it.

Alexander scrimps and Alexander saves and John and Gilbert watch him with worried eyes, try to pay for things on the sly, try to get him to take their money, make his life easier, but Alexander is built on one pillar named _pride_ and another named _honour_ and won’t hear of it, not for a second. He snarls and glares at them, his spine prickling up as he turns his back on them, and John and Gilbert are left helplessly holding limp notes in their hands and watching him walk away.

“I need new shirts,” Alexander says one day, wiggling a finger through a hole in the armpit of one of his shirts, plain and cotton, and frowning.

“We can go,” John says, tipping back in the chair. “I wanted to buy a new CD anyway.”

Alexander blinks up at him from the floor with wary eyes. He’s surrounded by clothes which John guesses are sorted into piles of _keep_ and _throw_ but he can’t for the life of him figure out which is which. It’s not like he has the best fashion taste in the world but if he had his way then he’d throw all of Alexander’s clothes out, buy him new ones, pretty ones, silk on his skin. Alexander likes the gentle touches, likes to run his fingers over soft things and sigh happily, likes to rub his face into the lapels of that one velvet jacket that Gil owns. John can hardly imagine what it feels like to pull the cheap and starchy fabric of his shirts over his head every day, have it rub up all over his skin, make him itch.

“You’ll take me to Target,” Alexander says finally, “And you’ll keep your mouth shut about it.”

John winces but mimes zipping his lips closed. Resigns himself to an hour of watching Alexander hum and haw over fifty cent price differences while he tries to squash down the urge to grab the most expensive shit and haul it to the counter, swipe his card before Alexander can even make a sound of protest.

He texts Gil in despair half an hour in when Alexander’s narrowing his eyes, trying to choose between one cheap ugly fabric and another, and Gil texts him back a string of monkey emoji’s covering their mouths. _That’s not helpful,_ John texts in response and Gil shoots him another string of emoji’s, this time middle fingers. John rolls his eyes, slides his phone back into his pocket, kisses Alexander on the back of the head and murmurs that he’s going to find that CD, is that okay? Alexander waves him off, concentrating too hard on what to spend his money on to snap at John for treating him like a child.

Alexander ends up with three packs of two shirts, all in different colours but none in white, because he’ll get them dirty too quick and have to spend more money more often on the washing machines downstairs. He mumbles this to John as if in justification and John gently reminds him that their building comes with washing machines and dryers, that Alexander doesn’t have to pay for any of it, that he can get the white shirts if he wants. Alexander blinks, shoves two of the packs into John’s arms and disappears with the pack of grey shirts, comes back with a different pack of white ones and an extra pack of vest tops. John takes them off him, scans them through the self checkout, has his wallet out and open by the time Alexander realises what’s going on.

He pushes John back, glares at him. “I thought you said you’d keep your mouth shut.”

“My mouth is shut,” John pouts.

“But your wallet’s open, which says more to me than your mouth ever could. I can pay for this myself, thanks,” he spits and John looks at him for a moment, the darkness of his eyes, the hard set of his mouth as he frowns, the way his fingers tap against his worn jeans, and takes a few steps back.

John watches him jab his PIN into the card machine viciously and decides to take a chance. Wraps his arms around Alexander’s waist and rocks his hips up, presses his chest tight against Alexander’s back, kisses his shoulder. Alexander stills, the checkout machine beeps at him, and he leans back into John and carries on with his purchase.

John hums, sways, and Alexander knocks at his hands once he’s done and everything is bagged and there’s someone not-so-discreetly coughing behind them to get a move on.

“I want a coffee,” John says, tips his head in the direction of the Starbucks across the street. Alexander frowns.

“We have coffee at home,” he says but John whines, says that Gil has devoured the last of the good coffee beans, says that he wants an iced frappe anyway.

“I’ll get you something, your favourite, we can get it,” John weedles, starts to cross the street and drag Alexander along with him. A car horn blares and John throws his middle finger up at it without looking, obnoxiously slows down his walk until Alexander rolls his eyes and pushes at the small of his back to make him move.

“I just want a water,” he says, eyeing the line of people in front of them. John hums, snags a bottle of water from the display case, rolls it in his palm while he decides which iced drink he wants.

“Do you think- wait, what are you doing?” Alexander says in a rush, blinking at John.

“...Deciding what coffee I want?” he replies, confused.

Alexander rolls his eyes, snatches the bottle of water out of his hand and puts it back in the display case. John watches him do it, feeling more and more lost as the seconds tick by.

“Those things are expensive as fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “If you ask for venti ice water at the counter they’ll give you it for twenty five cents.”

John stares down at him in surprise. “I didn’t know that,” he says. “You’re really good at this secret saving thing, aren’t you?”

Alexander’s smile goes tight around the edges. “I have to be.”

 _No you don’t,_ John wants to say. _Let me pay, let me spend my money on you, you shouldn’t have to count your pennies like this,_ but he keeps his mouth shut. Watches Alexander receive a venti cup of ice water that’s more ice than water and sip at it happily through a straw. Watches the price of his own coffee ring up on the counter. Watches himself hand over a ten without care and shove the rest of the change in the tip box.

.

Their relationship works out pretty well.

It was bumpy at the beginning, what with John and Gilbert being in the year above Alexander and already having established a strange sort of dynamic where John would punch Gil in the solar plexus and Gil would fuck him hard and string him out for hours, only sometimes letting him come. That was good, it worked, in a strange way, considering John nearly broke out into hives any time someone implied he and Gilbert were dating because in reality they were _seeing each other,_ occasionally, and usually to fuck and fight. No buying of flowers, no paying for dinners, flat out no cuddling was involved.

Alexander was an unforeseen event who didn’t so much as crash into their lives as slowly fit himself in, until neither John nor Gilbert had any idea what life was like before him. They didn’t meet Alexander and immediately jump into a gay threesome: no, Alexander was still going through some shit with his gender and fluctuating between pronouns, switching between one and then another and then another, crying quietly into Gilbert’s shoulder and wearing oversized hoodies to hide his body. He eventually settled, found his niche, and John knows it still tears him up that his dead name is on all his official documentation but it’d be too much of a hassle and a risk to change it all and reapply for everything so John and Gil always call him Alexander, loudly and clearly; never Alex, just to help erase in any capacity anyone’s doubts about Alexander’s masculinity.

Still, then, it was shaky going developing the thing that comes as easy as breathing to them now. John was too caught up in making his knuckles bleed to properly put thought into the eyes Alexander was making at him so Gil picked up the slack, took Alexander to bed, looked after him, made him shiver with fingers and soft mouths. He had walked in on Gil with his cock buried sweetly in Alexander and two fingers circling his clit; walked straight out. Stumbled back in high as a kite and burrowed into bed with their sleepy sweaty bodies, pressed lazy kisses into the back of Alexander’s neck and felt him turn soft and lean back into the curve of his floppy, drug riddled body.

Gil had flicked his ear and told him he was stinking the place up in the morning and John moaned, pushed his face further into the curve of Alexander’s neck, listened to Alexander giggle and felt him fit their fingers together. Kissed him with his mouth tasting gross and dry and sharp from the weed but slow and deep, like he could convince Alexander that this is definitely what he wanted, no doubt about it, sorry he was slow on the uptake. Gilbert stroked fingers down his spine when John took it upon himself to turn Alexander over fully, splay him out underneath him, fit their bodies together properly for the first time, and John smacked Gil’s fingers away and growled, nearly bit through Alexander’s bottom lip.

“Jacky, Jacky,” Gilbert had sighed, pursed lips. Exchanged a glance with Alexander. “Maybe you’ll have more success taming him, all of my efforts have been fruitless.”

“Don’t think he wants to be tamed,” Alexander had said, thick in the back of his throat, sliding his hands into John’s mass of curls. John pushed into the touch and dipped down to lick over Alexander’s nipple, puffy and sweet pink, stroke fingers over the curve of his breasts.

“Not by me, perhaps,” Gil continued, watching with heavy eyes. “But by you he seems quite willing,” and John almost kicked him out of bed, grumbling about how he was ruining his exploration of Alexander, how he should fuck off and leave them alone for a few hours so he could catch up.

“It’s not my fault you’re slow,” Gilbert snipped, dug his long nails into John’s shoulder. “Stop that, he doesn’t like that, try this-”

They made Alexander come, eyes rolling back into his head, on two of John’s fingers and one of Gil’s wiggled in next to them. It was a revelation to John, watching Alexander squirm and listening to the high noises that tore out the back of his throat, feeling how wet and hot he was inside, so unlike anything John had ever felt before.

Alexander has a pretty high sex drive, John finds out early on and is utterly floored by. He wants to go _all the time,_ and it’s probably a blessing that neither John nor Gilbert can resist him and are always willing to provide. It’s less of a great thing those times in the beginning when Alexander would lock himself in the bathroom, crying, because he wasn’t sure whether he was lying to himself and he was really a straight girl and not a gay guy and John and Gil would press their hands to the door and sit quietly. They’d wake up the next morning with a text on their phones with his preferred pronouns for the day.

It took a little bit of negotiating but they worked out a system. Gil won’t let John fuck him, which is fair enough, because John’s likely to take a bite out of him and make him bleed if left to his own devices and Gil’s hardly ever in the mood to get his ass fucked anyway. Best leave it to Alexander to peg him, which Alexander loves doing, and John gets to watch Alexander’s hips move and Gilbert tilt his head back and bare his throat in a vulnerable way he’d never show to John.

John doesn’t mind who fucks him: Alexander likes it slow and sweet, rolling hips, dripping sweat, likes to drag it out sometimes and make John gasp whereas Gilbert can always be relied upon to go rough with him, bruises and sharp half-moon nail bites, all manner of toys and clamps and flogs that John’s still a little scared by but wants so much that sometimes it’s hard to breathe.

He likes fucking Alexander too, though that happens less often, because Gilbert craves it like he has a sweet tooth and Alexander’s dipped in sugar. John likes to watch, anyway, make himself wait, put Alexander first and trail his fingers all over him, rub at his clit with barely there pressure, ghost along his hips and ribs, push his fingers into Alexander’s mouth and tell him to suck. Sometimes they’ll attempt to both take Alexander at once, Gilbert underneath him and buried in his cunt and John pressing carefully into his ass, holding Alexander gently by the throat, pinching his nipples while Gil thumbs at his clit. Alexander makes the best noises and they both love to drag them out of him, make him wail, make his speech stutter and stumble to a stop until all he can do is whine.

He remembers, vividly, a time early on into their relationship when Gil had Alexander spread out underneath him, legs wide and back arching and lungs gasping as Gil drove his cock into him over and over. John had knelt on the bed next to them and traced his fingers over every part of Alexander, watching goosebumps rise on his skin, pinching his nipples and rubbing his tummy and circling his clit.

He’d watched in fascination the way that Alexander’s hole stretched around Gil’s cock, flushed red, the way he got so wet that his cunt shined with it, all over his folds and his thighs. He’d touched where Gil’s cock sank into him, felt how tight he was, how hot he was, and Alexander had moaned and thrashed and breathed both their names like a prayer.

He’d scrambled for the tiny vibrating body wand they’d bought to play with, the one with the soft head and several different speed settings, and pumped some lube over the top and spread it about, before settling it against Alexander’s clit and twisting the bottom to turn it on. His back had immediately arched up and Gil’s pace jolted, probably able to feel the faint vibrations so close to his cock, and John had grinned wickedly and pressed it harder against Alexander’s clit, moving it in tiny slow circles to drive him crazy.

He leaned over and kissed Alexander, licking into his mouth and moaning, and Alexander shook underneath him. He’d gotten off like that, one hand on his cock, stroking fast and hard, Alexander groaning into his mouth and the sound of Gil’s hips slapping against Alexander’s thighs loud in his ears.

He’d watched when Alexander came, a high whine in the back of his throat, his stretched hole clenching around Gil’s cock, all his skin flushed and pretty and his breath hitching as his orgasm dragged out. Gil had groaned and come too, thrusting through it in long strokes rather than stilling, and John licked his lips and watched the white of his come spill out of Alexander as Gil continued to fuck him.

He’d gotten to eat Alexander out after, sucking up Gil’s come and Alexander’s own slick with an eager tongue, Alexander’s legs tight around his ears and Gil’s hand in his hair, keeping his down there, as if he’d even want to come back up. Alexander was hot and wet and beautifully soft, fluttering around his tongue, making such pretty noises, and John couldn’t think of any place he’d rather be in the world right then than there, between Alexander’s thighs, taking him apart slowly.

John softens, eventually, gets used to being casually affectionate with other people, loves to be wrapped up in Alexander’s arms and held tight. He and Gilbert often bicker over who gets to cuddle with Alexander and the man in question actually draws up a fucking chart and designates time slots so they’ll stop snapping at each other, bless him. John has Gilbert when he wants to get wrecked and Alexander when he wants to be cradled and all in all it’s a pretty neat system. He’s fiercely protective over their little relationship, will gladly jam his knuckles into the teeth of anyone who takes it upon themselves to comment like it’s any of their business.

A lot of people take it upon themselves to comment like it’s any of their business. John won’t contest that it’s not every day three dudes flaunt their polyamorous relationship, especially when two of those dudes have been seen regularly beating the shit out of each other and the other has a hard time being called a dude at all. People are constantly unpleasant and this is not a surprise to John, not after all this time, but it still makes his blood boil and his fists clench up, tight.

“Shit, I left my wallet at home,” Alexander’s scowling and glaring at his tray of food, and John’s just about to say _I’ll spring for you, no problem,_ his mouth already open and the words about to buzz out of his vocal chords when someone beats him to it.

“Good thing, you could stand to lose a few pounds,” some jackass behind them in the queue sneers, and his friends behind him snort, jeering. Alexander goes stiff as a board, a small muscle in his jaw twitching.

“You must have some seriously poppin’ pussy to get Laurens to even bother with you,” the guy continues and John fucking _snaps,_ goes to launch himself at the guy, careless of the scene he’d be making in the middle of the campus cafeteria, Jesus, and he’s later thankful that Alexander has the common goddamn sense to stop him.

He remembers that his dad used to tell him that if anyone steps to his girl then to either laugh it off or get a weapon, namely: his fists. John doesn’t have a girl, will never have a girl, but the sentiment was understood and still sticks with him to this day.

Alexander throws all his strength into holding him back and the only reason why John doesn’t put up a fight is because it’s _Alexander_ and he couldn’t stand to fight with Alexander.

“Hammie,” he breathes as calmly as he can. Alexander’s hands are balled into fists on his chest, and John’s still squirming forwards like he’s not in control of his body towards that guy, who’s taken a cautious step back. He wonders, briefly, what his face looks like right now. Gilbert says he snarls and hisses like a wet cat, bares his fangs so to speak, whenever he fights and John hopes it manages to scare the shit out of the guy. He wants to sink his teeth into the meat of his neck and fucking tear out the flesh, hot blood everywhere, make the guy lose a _couple of pounds_ of blood, for fucks sake: _litres,_ he corrects himself, but who cares if the measurement is wrong, he wants to aim for the jugular and not stop until the guy is twitching his last underneath him.

“Not worth it, Jack,” Alexander says under his breath, through gritted teeth. “Don’t do it, it’s not worth it,” and his words are dark and John can parse out, at least a little, that Alexander is fuming, barely holding onto his good sense enough to keep John at bay. His knuckles are tight on John’s shirt, white.

John forces himself to relax. Cups Alexander’s hands and brings them to his lips. Alexander’s smile is strained but it’s a smile and John counts it as a win. John pays for both of them and the guy must feel that the danger has passed because he shuffles up the queue with them, taking up space in that way guys do, stance wide and shoulders broad, and Alexander crowds into John to avoid him. John sends him ahead, tells him to find a table, and once Alexander’s back is turned he stamps viciously on the guy’s foot, hears an incredibly satisfying crack, and walks off without care or regrets.

John and Gil are all scrappy, wiry muscle, honed and lean from fighting and the various other sports they participate in. John’s part of the casual baseball league at the park and plays volleyball for the university, and Gil runs track. Alexander has absolutely zero interest in sports outside of John and Gil’s asses in small shorts and licking the sweat off their bodies after, which is fine, not everyone likes sports, and Alexander barely has any time anyway, so if he took up a sport John would get very worried very fast.

He’s soft. His stomach swells, it gives when John presses his fingers into it, it rolls when he sits for long hours at his desk. Marks on his skin from the line of his jeans, the elastic of his boxers. John loves to trace his tongue over the bumpy marks, loves to rest his head on Alexander’s pudgy tummy, loves to grab at his hips and massage the flesh. Gil feels the same, he knows, because his eyes go dark just looking at Alexander, and he constantly wants to fuck Alexander’s thighs, which is transparent as hell.

Alexander’s not just chubby on his tummy, he’s got extra on his thighs, his arms, even his cheeks. His ass, especially. John loves that, loves to watch him bounce. It’s the hottest goddamn thing, and John loves it loves it loves it, but that doesn’t mean that Alexander does.

As if the incongruence of his gender and his body doesn’t bother Alexander enough, he’s also got assholes like that guy trying to dictate what he should look like. John wants to punch every single one of them in the face, scream _he’s perfect, he’s perfect and he’s mine, not yours, so shut the fuck up,_ right in their faces. Alexander seems to shed any self consciousness he has about his body when he’s with John and Gil, like he trusts them, like he knows they love him, which makes John feel warm all over, but he wishes something fierce that Alexander could feel that way all the time. There’s no point in forcing it, he knows, because Alexander will get extremely upset and isolate himself and then panic about whether his isolation is making John and Gil feel bad, and the whole thing will just escalate from there.

So John keeps his mouth shut, quietly follows Alexander to the table, pushes down the smugness he feels from hearing the guy’s whimpers and howls behind him and asks Alexander about his latest unit. Alexander will chat happily about that for the entire lunch period and John will watch the way his mouth moves, how he talks with his hands, how he demolishes everything on the plate without hesitating.

The thing is, Alexander will eat anything. Not _anything_ as in: dare him to eat a goldfish and he’ll stare you down and swallow it whole, no, he’ll eat anything as in: even things he doesn’t like. Anchovies, string beans, those disgusting protein shakes Hercules drinks: if you put it in front of him then he’ll eat it. He never leaves a scrap on his plate, it’s always practically licked clean, even Gil’s experimental meals that John goes a little bug eyed over.

John’s got a theory, and he doesn’t like the theory but it’s probably, unfortunately, an accurate theory. Alexander didn’t grow up with a lot, he knows this from stilted conversations in the pitch dark where Alexander squeezes his fingers together and avoids John’s eyes, and John thinks, probably, that he grew up with shortages of food as well.

Not that he thinks his mother ever let Alexander go hungry, he would never offend her like that even in death; even though he doesn’t know her, will never know her, he knows that she’d done everything she could to keep Alexander alive. But Alexander, from ages twelve to seventeen, was alone, had to fend for himself, and John has a hard time imagining he was provided with enough means to feed himself properly, no matter how hard he worked. John remembers how Alexander had arrived in the States with mostly books in his suitcase, how he’d gone to charity shops and bought himself clothes once he realised he couldn’t get away with wearing the same shirt three days in a row anymore. John and Gil would trade pained glances and push their plates towards Alexander for him to eat what they hadn’t, which he did happily.

John remembers being in Alexander’s room, searching under the bed for a spare charger for his laptop, and his fumbling fingers finding cardboard boxes filled with tinned foodstuffs. Non-perishable. “Just in case,” Alexander had said, looking caged and hunted, and John had slowly pushed the boxes back under the bed and not said a word to him about it ever again.

What Alexander had to go through in order to think that hoarding food _just in case_ was a reasonable thing for a stable person to do, he doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he wants to find out.

So watching how Alexander eats everything, every bite, every grain of rice and lick of gravy and crumb of bread, makes his stomach squirm around uncomfortably, his thoughts circling the drain of what disaster could have happened to him to make him this way, eating almost defensively ( _just in case,_ John’s mind whispers), but it also soothes him. Watching Alexander eat is satisfying, like he’s taking care of Alexander in some way, making sure he’s always full and happy, that he never goes hungry. John and Gil take it upon themselves to practically force feed Alexander when he’s buried deep in the zone of studying in that frantic way he has where he forgets that anything exists outside the words, words, words.

It’s even more satisfying when he can convince Alexander to let him pay for it all.

Alexander groans and pulls John abruptly out of his thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, eyeing Alexander up and down. His face crumpled in slight pain, eyebrows drawn together, hands under the table. John rubs his foot up Alexander’s calf and gets a small smile in response.

“Cramps,” he says, whisper quiet.

“Ah,” John says dumbly. Winces. Alexander straightens up, places his hands flat on the table.

“I’m gonna,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, “Sort myself out in the bathroom.”

“You want me to come with?” John asks, mind sharp, because Alexander has a hard time in bathrooms now matter how ‘accepting’ and ‘open minded’ people say they are, and he’s just as likely as John to punch someone in the face when it comes to this.

But Alexander just shakes his head, his hair falling in front of his eyes. He huffs and shoves it back behind his ear and John feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips. Alexander stands in the harsh fluorescent light of the cafeteria, purple bags under his eyes, hoodie too big and swamping his frame, and John doesn’t know how he got so utterly lucky.

“I’ll, um, be fine by myself, I gotta... “ he trails off, looking uncomfortable and John abruptly realises how difficult this must be for Alexander, to go through this, every month. He nods quickly, drags his eyes away from Alexander to give him a little bit of a break.

“I’ll see you and Gil later, tonight, I… Set up the spare room for me, okay?” he says and John’s head snaps back up.

“The spare room? You’re not gonna stay with us? But last month you did,” he says in a rush.

Alexander looks distinctly uncomfortable. “I don’t think I can, this month, I’m,” and he flaps his hands about, flustered, and his eyes are starting to dart around, panicky.

“It’s okay,” John says, palms up, gentle. “We’ll leave the door open just in case, you know you’re welcome, but you do whatever makes you most… comfortable.” He hopes frantically that he’s said the right thing, the sensitive and supportive thing, even though his heart is yearning to tell Alexander that he doesn’t care, they don’t care, it’s fine if he makes a mess, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, John and Gil are happy to hold him, to take care of him, to love him and love him and love him.

Alexander flashes him a smile, hikes his bag up his shoulder. “I’ll be home late,” he says, “I got a study group, you and Gil will have to entertain yourselves."

“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” John says dryly.

That way turns out to be, unsurprisingly, Gilbert fucking him within an inch of his life.

John’s still riled up from earlier, blood hot in his veins, and he goes into it with his claws out and his whole body trying to wriggle and twist out of Gil’s unrelenting grip, like a slippery fish fighting for its life. Gil rises to the challenge with little more than a raised eyebrow, always up for putting John in his place, and John licks his lips and digs his heels into Gil’s knees, makes him buckle and go down hard, only for his own feet to be swept out unceremoniously from under him.

They’re rich, the floors in their apartment are all hardwood and polished, and his head makes a sharp cracking noise when it hits the floor heavily. Gilbert pants over him, spits, and suddenly John loses all his will to fight back, limbs heavy and pliant and willing to let Gil do whatever he pleases. Gil goes about it beautifully, systematically, John’s boxers rucked to the side and his tongue in his ass, John’s calves over his shoulders and his toes curling up, until he’s writhing and biting back cries of pleasure, his dick throbbing, wondering if Gil’s gonna let him come like this.

He doesn’t, of course: rather he shoves two fingers into John’s mouth and commands that he get them wet and John sucks on them, unashamed and filthy, and when Gil pulls them out a string of saliva hangs suspended between his fingertips and John’s lips, until it snaps and hits John’s skin in a cold trail. He flinches.

Gil pushes two fingers up inside him, scissors them mercilessly, fucks him with three fingers once, twice, three times. Pulls out and asks John if he wants lube, and John shakes his head frantically. He wants this to _hurt,_ just enough that he’ll feel it, just enough that he’ll be reminded.

“Spit,” he chokes out, “Just your spit, come on, I’m wet enough, come on,” and Gilbert growls, yanks his boxers down and over his ankles and pushes his cock into John, spread open and waiting, and John’s back arches so hard that it’s actually painful.

Gil looms over him, shoves John’s shoulders down onto the floor, the hard wood uncomfortable on his bones and he thrashes, digs his fingers into the meat of Gil’s thighs. Sets his teeth on Gilbert’s collarbones, sucks like he’s trying to get down to his bones to swallow his marrow whole.

Gilbert’s pace is brutal. He closes his eyes and puts all his strength into holding John down, one hand hard on his shoulder and the other creeping up his throat. John moans, pushes his throat up into it, and Gil tightens his fingers and gradually cuts off his air supply, letting go and making his breath rush back to him after a few seconds. Each lungful feels like a livewire connection to his dick, each sweet breath after the long seconds of denial makes him twitch and jump, and Gil’s cock passes his prostate about every four of five thrusts and makes him see stars.

Gil comes, hard and fast, filling John’s up sweetly. John moans unabashedly, always a slut for the hot rush of come inside him. He clenches down around Gil’s cock and he hisses, presses more of his weight down onto John, squeezes his throat in warning. John thinks he’s going to leave him there like that, wriggling and gagging for it, when he slips out out he slithers down John’s body, hand still on his throat, and puts his lips to the head of John’s leaking cock.

The noises that come out of John’s throat aren’t pretty, strangled and torn, and Gil slides his lips down the shaft, practically making out with his dick instead of sucking him in. It’s a tease and it’s terrible and John’s about to kick him in protest when his hand tightens around John’s throat again and his back arches and he sucks John in, wet and sweet, and when he lets John breathe again he finds himself gulping air and his orgasm wracking through him, every part shaking.

He flops, spent, and Gil chuckles, flicks his fingers against John’s dick just to see him jolt. John glares at him, the aches and pains of their fight settling in now the high of his arousal has worn off. The floor has fucked up his shoulders, his coccyx for sure, and he’s got marks bruising across his ribs from Gil’s knuckles. His throat is probably a mess of marks too, he thinks hazily. He eyes Gil up and down, feels pleased that he’s managed to leave a few marks of his own, stretches out like a satisfied cat in the sunlight. Gil rolls his eyes, get up off the floor and pads away to the bathroom, door open.

“You were good, which is surprising since our Alexander isn’t here,” he says over his shoulder.

“I can be good when Alexander isn’t here,” John retorts, ignoring the way his heart warms at the word _our._

Gil snorts. “If you are, then I’m never around to see it.”

“What can I say, you bring out the worst in me,” John says lazily.

The look Gilbert levels him with is hard and uncompromising, something in his eyes entirely too knowing. “You need me.”

John bares his teeth at him. “I don’t need you for shit but your dick and your fists.”

Gilbert makes his way back over to him, starts to mop the mess of John’s chest and ass. The cloth is cold and it makes John shiver, his skin breaking out into goosebumps. Gil watches him with hooded eyes, hands uncharacteristically gentle as he works his way over John’s skin.

“I love you,” he says, not looking John in the eye.

John pauses for a moment, thinking, wondering. It’s not often they exchange words like these; no matter how much they smother Alexander in their love, brazen and bare faced, their own relationship is a careful balance of snippy words and tight jabs. The closest times they’ve ever come to confessing anything to each other, specifically, without Alexander present, have been during fights where they’re defending each other or after fights when they’re patching up each other’s wounds.

“Fuck off,” John says finally, but he taps his fingers against Gil’s ribs, _one, two, three,_ in lieu of actually saying the words.

Gilbert grins like a shark, dark and dangerous, but John can see the happy light in his eyes. He looks away quickly, uncomfortable with how fast his heart is beating, and Gil eventually gets up and leaves him, and John retreats to the bed and curls up on top of the blankets, naked and warm, rubbing his cheek into the high thread count.

Alexander snorts when he sees him upon his return home, comes over and plants a wet kiss on John’s forehead and John hums, tangles his fingers into Alexander’s shirt and pulls him down. He tumbles on top of John with a short laugh and John touches his fingers to the small crinkles around his eyes, his laugh lines, proof of his happiness.

Gilbert comes and climbs in behind John, plasters his front to John’s back and reaches a gangly arm over so he can stroke at Alexander’s skin. John’s too chilled out to bother protesting, doesn’t even stiffen up, and Alexander presses a small kiss to his hair like he’s proud of him.

“I can see that you two had fun without me,” he says, voice dry.

John pouts. “Could have had fun with you too,” he whines.

Alexander kicks him lightly in the shin. “No, it’s gross, it’s weird, I won’t let you.”

John whines again, knowingly petulant and uncaring of the fact. “It’d be just fingers, just fingers,” he says, stroking over Alexander’s knee, feeling him sigh.

“I set up the spare room for you,” Gilbert says and his voice is soft, understanding, and suddenly John feels like an asshole for pushing Alexander like that.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and Alexander shushes him, pets his hair. “Stay for a little bit, though,” he pleads, “I’m in a good mood, we could get high, come on.”

Gilbert and Alexander snort in unison but neither of them put up a fight and so John scrambles for his bong and the baggie of the _really_ good stuff he’d begged Hercules to hook him up with, the stuff he was saving for a special occasion. This seems special enough: his heart has been somewhat bared to Gilbert, willingly, and Alexander is always special to him, so there’s no reason to _not_ smoke it, really.

John fills the bong with cold water, takes a test drag to make sure the water doesn’t touch his lips. He’s an old hand at this, so it’s not likely that he’ll make a mistake, but Alexander glares at him if he doesn’t go through all the steps and then there’s a chance that his mood will take as angry or disappointed while riding high and John never likes that. He grinds up weed, not too fine, because he’ll be pissed if he wastes it and this is the _good_ stuff. He packs quickly and pops the bowl back in, walking over to the bed carefully, lighter in hand.

He places the bong on Gilbert’s back, stretched out and practically perfect to use as a surface, and he doesn’t protest, merely rolls his eyes and turns his head so he can watch what John’s doing out of the corner of his eye. The lighter flicks in his grip and he grins when the flame catches, watches the herb start to glow and the bowl fill up with smoke, his lips pursed inside the mouthpiece and he inhales. He takes the bowl out and takes a deep breath in, pulling all the smoke into his lungs and feeling the rush sink through him. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, exhales.

Alexander takes the next hit, wiping his lips on the sleeve of his hoodie to get them dry and letting his eyes flutter closed, his eyelashes inky dark against his cheeks. John’s fingertips feel warm just watching him. Gilbert hums, watching Alexander too, and Alexander tilts the bong towards him in offering and he shakes his head, his curls starting to frizz about around his head from the smoke.

John and Alexander share a look and John smiles wickedly, spurred by his and Gilbert’s surprisingly tender moment earlier, and takes another hit. Holds it in his mouth, leans close over Gil, nudges at his lips. Gil’s eyebrow cocks upwards but he opens his lips to accept the offering anyway and John exhales, the smoke curling between their mouths, hot and slow. He feels Gilbert suck in, feels his ribs expand where his hand is pressed to his back, and John pulls away so Gil can exhale but dives back in as soon as he does so, feeling eager and restless and happy to slick his tongue into Gil’s mouth and taste the back of his teeth.

Alexander makes a high noise behind them, like a whine, and when John turns around he can see that his mouth is open, red and wet, and he’s watching John and Gilbert with hooded eyes, pupils blown.

“No fair,” he whines, “This was a bad idea, oh God.”

Gilbert kicks out and John scrambles to grab the bong before it slides off his back. “The high will help your cramps,” he’s saying, lazy, his accent thick, and John nods along.

“The high is not helping my hormones though,” Alex says darkly and John shoots him a cheeky grin.

“Like I said, it’s just fingers, baby,” and he knows he’s pushing his luck when Alexander sucks in a sharp breath, wavers and sways towards him, but ultimately leans back on his hands, eyes narrowed. John offers him the next hit as a peace offering, despite the fact that it’s his turn anyway.

They make their way through the bowl like this, trading back and forth, Gil still stretched out on his stomach and John splayed out on his back next to him, his head turned towards Gil’s, trading kisses with him occasionally. Alexander takes it upon himself to perch himself on John’s thighs, something that does not help the low stir of arousal John feels from the combination of Gil’s lips on his and all of their skin bare against each other. When Alexander lost his hoodie John can’t quite be sure, maybe it all came off whilst he was lost in Gil’s mouth, but his breasts are bare and soft and John strokes the sides of them carefully with his thumbs, eyelids heavy.

Gil gets apathetic when he’s high, content to just spread out and cease all caring about anything, largely unresponsive to anything but John’s insistent lips. Alexander, bless him, amplifies his passion and fervour to the nth degree and runs his mouth, trailing off on this tangent and that tangent at rapid fire pace and John watches his bright eyes and and tries not to think about how much he’d like to just sink into Alexander’s skin, the softness of it, like spun silk under his fingers, the beautiful way it rolls and flows and seems to want to wrap itself around John just as much.

Alexander cuts himself off abruptly, in the middle of something strange which John isn’t entirely sure has any actual meaning (“Five alligator, six alligator, seven alligator, _car!_ ” John’s brain informs him), when he feels John’s hips twitch up, the thickening of his cock.

“No fair,” he pouts and John’s eyes narrow in on his lips, so sweet and soft, so pink, so wet. His hips twitch up again and Alexander squirms, whines, his nipples stiffening.

“Quit it,” Gilbert says lazily, poking John in the side.

“Wish you’d stay with us tonight, Hammie,” John says instead of saying sorry. Alexander catches it and narrows his eyes at him, climbs off his lap and retreats to a corner of the bed where he curls up, arms around his knees, for a long minute until he gives in to his need for human contact and crawls back over and flops onto Gil’s back instead.

It’s quiet and some part of John wants to kick himself but there’s a larger part of him that can’t quite locate and pin down any remorse, floating too high at the moment. He _wants_ Alexander, selfishly, he knows, but right now it’s all he wants and he’s _right there_ and John doesn’t quite understand why he won’t just let John touch him.

“Jack,” Gil hisses, sharp, when John makes a frustrated growling sound, and John glares at him and stumbles to his feet.

“Fine,” he says, childish. “Ruin my high. This shit was _expensive_ , for fucks sake,” and he misses the way Alexander flinches away, hides his face.

“We can all sleep in separate beds tonight, fuck it, for the rest of the week. This is bullshit,” he snaps and Gilbert actually rises, dislodges Alexander who is _trembling_ but John doesn’t notice, maybe doesn’t want to notice, and crosses over to him. Pushes at his chest, and John knows it’s just his fingers, blunt and light, but the pressure punctures his skin like he’s been cut and he rocks back on his feet as the unpleasant sensation blooms over his skin.

“Fuck off,” Gilbert says, hard and unyielding, and the flames in his eyes are all too real. John feels like someone’s cracked an egg over his head and it’s seeping over his skin, cold and slimy, and he’s ashamed that he’s too proud to apologise immediately.

Instead, his stupid foggy brain decides it’s a good idea to spit in Gilbert’s direction and walk off, slam the door loudly closed, sharp like the crack of a whip. The wooden floors hurt the pads of his feet as he walks, the couch is scratchy and prickly, needling his skin, and he remembers how soft Alexander was just moments ago and wonders if this is punishment. It probably is, he decides, and burrows further into the couch. Pushes his face into the fabric and seeks out the pain.

.

They have a sort of staggered system in which they complete their morning rituals, starting with in what order they wake up.

Usually it goes Gil first, because he’s a well adjusted human being when it comes to this shit and always goes to bed at a reasonable hour, that coupled with the fact that he’s intrinsically a morning person and often has track practice at the break of dawn means he’s hopping out of bed in the early A.M. while John and Alexander groan and clutch at each other.

Alexander gets up next because he was dumb enough to schedule a bunch of early classes at the beginning of the semester and once his brain kickstarts he is _awake_ and there’s no stopping him. He often doesn’t crawl into bed until the wee hours of the morning anyway, and John has a sneaking suspicion that he basically never gets more than four hours of sleep straight, which is worrying.

It’s left to John to wake up last, usually with the bedsheets cool beside him, leeched from the warmth of their occupants and left empty. John is decidedly _not_ a morning person: he’s grumpy and irritable and can barely keep his eyes open, preferring to slip easily back under into the cradling embrace of sleep than drag himself out of the warmth of the bed and into the day. The only times he gets to wake up with Gil or Alexander or, if he’s extra lucky, both of them at the same time, is the weekends, and even then it’s a toss up of whether they’ve got events on or meetings to get to or simply if Alexander can lie still long enough to let John wake up gradually like he yearns to do every day.

So it’s strange to be awake already the next morning, blinking slow and lethargic and shivering in the cool morning air because he forgot to pick up any blankets last night. Gilbert was up and out almost before the first pale fingers of dawn started to creep their way across the apartment, slamming the door behind him almost viciously, probably entirely aware that John was nursing an unpleasant hangover, mouth cotton dry and head pounding, surrounded by granola bar wrappers and what looked like several unfinished sticks of carrot and celery.

John doesn’t blame him for being short with him. From what he can parse through the haze of last night he was a giant _dick_ and he berates himself while burying his head in the sofa cushion, wondering if he keeps his face there long enough maybe he’ll suffocate.

Alexander wanders in about a half an hour later in his binder and his boxers, bare feet slapping on the tiles of the kitchen floor, going to pour himself some coffee. John watches him silently, not wanting to draw attention to himself, instead content to look at Alexander bustling about the kitchen and rubbing at his slightly red eyes. The binder he’s wearing is a short one, stopping at his waist, and all his stomach pudge seems to gather up in rolls. John wants to get on his knees and bury his face there, press kisses into his belly, Alexander’s fingers in his hair and his lips on Alexander’s warm skin.

Alexander is impatient as he waits for the coffee to drip and he absently pushes down the edge of the binder where he’s peeled and rolled up his waist, wiggles a finger into the fabric under his arm and hisses. John catches a hint of red, chafing, and breathes in, sharp.

“Are you okay?” he asks stupidly, and Alexander jumps about a half a foot in the air.

“Huh? What? Yeah, I’m fine,” he says in a rush, wide dark eyes blinking in John’s direction like a startled bunny. John frowns.

“You don’t look very comfortable,” he says slowly and Alexander tilts his head to the side, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Your binder,” John points, and he can’t believe he’s never noticed before. Alexander usually takes off his binder as soon as he’s through the door and into the safety of their apartment, wrangling it off in the bathroom away from anyone’s eyes, stating that it’s not healthy to have it on for so long and he likes to be comfortable in his own home anyway. John’s chest had warmed when he’d said that, _home,_ like it was easy as breathing, and completely missed the implication that Alexander _wasn’t_ comfortable during the day.

And getting up consistently later than Alexander meant never really seeing him get dressed, never really seeing him _wearing_ it. He was aware, of course, that Alexander wore a binder before right now, but only really objectively. Alexander’s always either already taken it off when they get naked, or John’s been distracted by Gil and therefore unaware of Alexander taking it off.

Alexander shrugs. “They’re not ever really comfortable, but that’s to be expected.”

John sits up, pushes through the heavy ache that settles at the forefront of his skull. “You shouldn’t _expect_ discomfort, Alexander, why don’t you get a new one, a better one?”

“This one was donated, I didn’t have to pay much for it at all. And it works just fine, there’s no sense in me blowing cash on a new one when I don’t really need it,” he replies, voice tight.

“ _Blowing_ cash- you wouldn’t be _blowing_ anything. My God, Ham, you deserve a good, comfortable binder that doesn’t chafe you or leave marks. _I’ll_ pay for it, even, gladly, I’ll pay for twelve of them if it means you’re comfortable and happy and healthy and safe.”

Alexander’s spine straightens, sharp, and the muscle in his jaw jumps like he’s biting down words as hard as he can. John feels like, maybe, he’s made another dick move.

“Fuck off with your _happy and healthy and safe,_ John, you don’t think I want those things too? For myself? You think I _want_ to get rashes on my skin? Buying new shit, better shit, is expensive as hell and I swear to God if you say you’ll pay for it I’ll come over there and rip your vocal chords right out of your throat just to get you to shut the _fuck_ up,” he spits and seethes and John can see his hands have balled up into fists.

Fuck. He called him _John,_ which means he’s serious, as if his tone and his words weren’t enough. John swallows, lowers his eyes. He can hear Alexander continue to clatter about the kitchen, loud noises that make John wince, and John plucks a few hairs from his calves absently, relishing the sharp sting.

“I have money,” he finds himself saying, voice low. He can hear Alexander stop, the silence suffocating between them. “And I want to spend it on you. Gil and I pay all the rent here because we want you here, with us, and not far away and stuck with a roommate who hates you. I want you to be happy, and I want you to be safe, and I have the means to make that happen.”

“For fuck’s sake, John-”

“No, Alexander, for once in your life can you swallow your goddamn pride for a minute? This isn’t a hand out, it’s not charity, it’s me sincerely wanting- no, _needing,_ to make you happy.”

Alexander takes a deep breath. John lifts his eyes to peek at his face and immediately wishes he hadn’t done so, because Alexander’s face is cold and hard in the way it only gets when he’s seriously angry, when his usual explosive temper plummets down into the icy disdain of a man who has no fuse left to run out.

“Have you ever encountered a problem that you couldn’t solve with money?” he asks, voice dangerously smooth. John swallows.

“I-, not really, I mean-”

“Then you have never been poor,” Alexander continues. “You don’t know what it’s like, you’ll never know what it’s like. You take what you’re given and you find ways to squeeze more out of it no matter how dubious or morally wrong it seems. You steal, and you scrimp, and you save, and still it’s not enough to solve your problem. It’s not enough to buy medicine, it’s not enough to afford three square meals a day, it’s not enough to gain you respect. People with money don’t have these issues, they can throw around their credit cards and breeze through life with ease. I’ll never have that, no matter how hard I try. Even if I am successful in the future, I will still keep canned goods under my bed, I’ll still buy the off brand products rather than the real thing, I’ll still keep a notebook with every purchase I make written down in, I’ll still hoard tampons from the cheap tampon machine on campus every month.”

“Gil and I are willing, we’re happy, to pay for anything, though. It won’t even make a dent in our savings, Alexander, please, just let us-” he says, desperately, because his chest feels funny and his eyes feel tight and he _didn’t know_ Alexander did all that shit. He didn’t _know._

“John, no. You offering to buy me stuff makes me feel like shit. It makes me feel small, it makes me feel…” he shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling. “Last night, when you said I ruined your high and that the weed was _expensive_ it made me feel like I owed you something. Like, you let me smoke with you and expected something in return.”

John splutters, disgusted at the implication, disgusted at _himself,_ because Alexander is not a prostitute and John would never treat him like one. He was a dick but he wasn’t _extorting_ Alexander, he wasn’t- was he?

Alexander holds up a hand. “It’s fine, you’re okay, I know you made a mistake, it was stupid and we were high. You said it because you’re _rich,_ and you didn’t think about how that would come across to me. You think your money can make anything happen, can buy you anything, but it can’t, John, it can’t.”

“But I still want to spend money on you. I want to help make your life easier. I have the means, I don’t understand why you won’t just let me do this for you. You don’t owe me anything, you _won’t_ owe me anything, I _want_ to do this,” he says again, feeling like a broken record. Alexander makes a noise of frustration and puffs his cheeks out, tugs at his hair.

“You don’t _understand,_ for fuck’s sake John, you’re just making yourself out as more of a dick right now. Are you not listening to me? Your money won’t help me-”

“-But it can buy you stuff, stuff that can you make you happy, make your life easier-”

“-Stop trying to throw money at me! I am not a problem you can make go away with your credit card. You can’t _solve me_ with money and you, apparently, can’t make yourself less of an asshole either. I don’t want your money, fucking keep it,” he hisses, and John flinches back, stung.

“Don’t talk to me for a little while,” Alexander says in a small voice, his shoulders slumping, and he walks out of the kitchen and leaves John staring helplessly at thin air.

.

He needs to get really high, he decides, once Alexander has left the apartment and not spared him a single glance, shoulders tensed up and spine straight, eyes forward. But he doesn’t want to do it alone, so he texts Hercules to see if he’s free and ends up grinning sheepishly outside Hercules’ dorm room with his bong making an incredibly conspicuous shape in the lining of his bag.

“No, what the fuck John, it’s barely nine in the morning,” Hercules says, but he opens the door and ushers John in, checking quickly up and down the corridor to see if anyone noticed John’s complete idiocy.

“You reckless fucker,” he continues, turning around and glaring at John where he’s made himself comfortable on Herc’s bed. “Why on earth do you feel the need to get high at nine A.M.,” he says flatly.

“Because I hate myself?” John says, aiming for a joke but failing miserably. Hercules stills, and then rubs over his face and sighs heavily. Comes and joins John on the bed.

“What did you do?” he asks, a resigned note in his voice.

“I kept pushing something on Alexander and didn’t listen when he told me to stop,” he says quietly.

“This isn’t a sex thing, is it, because if it is then I’m going to have to punch you really hard and then not talk to you ever again,” Hercules says, gravely.

John blanches. “No,” he says, and then thinks about how he’d said _it’s just fingers_ last night but that’s not what this is about, that’s not what he was pushing, he’d never. “No, it’s about money. More specifically: I want to spend money on Alexander and he won’t let me.”

Hercules is silent for a moment and John bites his lip. He likes Hercules’ room, it feels cosy and safe. There’s rolls of fabric stacked up against the walls in all sorts of different colours and textures, there’s polaroid pictures stuck on the wall of Hercules’ friends, there’s his sketchbooks scattered around and drawings and designs pinned up. Occasionally John escapes here when he doesn’t feel like fighting but he’s not quite fitting inside his own skin and he’ll sit and sketch with Hercules in silence. It’s nice, he feels lighter here, and Hercules is pretty much always available to talk to. John thinks that if he wasn’t such a talented designer then he’d make a great therapist, but as it is he’s just a brilliant friend, always offering his shoulder for John to lean on and always with a few cans of beer in his mini-fridge to get pleasantly tipsy on.

“Maybe it’s not about him not _letting_ you, maybe it’s about him not _wanting_ you to,” Hercules says finally, his eyes warm and dark and comforting. John looks away.

“I just want to make him happy. I love him, I don’t want to see him struggle. He doesn’t have to, he has me and Gilbert, and we can provide things for him, easily. We love him,” he says thickly. His throat feels oddly choked up and he tries to clear it.

“I see,” Hercules hums. “You want to help make his life easier for paying for stuff his financial situation can’t afford, while Alexander is proud and doesn’t want to just take your money. Maybe there’s some sort of negotiation to be had here?” he suggests and John blinks at him.

“A negotiation?” he repeats.

Hercules nods, looking incredibly wise. “Maybe there’s a way you can sometimes pay for stuff in return for doing something for Alexander, like, I don’t know, cleaning the apartment? Like, you get to pay for his meal and he gets you to do the dishes, or something.”

John squints at him. “That sounds weird,” he says finally.

“Well fuck, John, I’m just trying to help here-”

“-No, no, you are helping, it’s just… I don’t want to come off as more of a dick than I’m already being. Alexander’s not talking to me and I don’t think Gil is either and I don’t want to make things worse than they already are.”

“You’ll have to talk to them eventually,” Hercules points out.

“Maybe not right now,” John mumbles, “Right now I just want to get high.”

“No,” Hercules says firmly, ignoring John’s pleading eyes. “It’s way too early and I’ve got shit to do today. You know I get the munchies something fierce and if I end up with crumbs and stains on my custom fabrics I’ll kill you.”

John pouts, sticking his bottom lip out exaggeratedly. Hercules rolls his eyes.

“Come here, cuddle with me instead,” he sighs, crawls up the bed and flops on his back, making grabby hands in John’s direction. John goes easily, drapes himself fully over Hercules’ chest, because dorm beds are small and aren’t able to fit two people side by side and especially not when one of those people is built like a brick house.

John buries his head in Hercules’ shoulder and almost starts purring when Hercules digs his fingers into his scalp, massaging away his headache.

“You smell fucking terrible,” he whispers and John smacks his hip.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” he snaps and when Hercules’ chuckles he can feel it vibrate under his cheek.

“Talk to them,” Hercules says as he’s pushing a whining John out of the door once the time rolls around for them to stop cuddling and actually get to class.

That’s easier said than done, though, because both Gil and Alexander are avoiding him and John still isn’t quite sure what he wants to say. He doesn’t know how to make this better, because his desire to help Alexander hasn’t diminished in the slightest and the only ways he can see this working out is either Alexander drops his pride and just lets John do what he wants or they never talk about it again and John has to watch Alexander struggle when he _knows_ he could help make it all go away.

He knows Alexander will never just let him do what he wants and he also knows he’s a dick for even thinking it. It’s frustrating that he’s being denied but he’s not spoiled enough to stubbornly keep on this path. He also knows he won’t be able to stand idly by and watch Alexander work himself to the bone for money John has in his back pocket, which leads him to believe that either they keep fighting like this until one of them breaks or that there really is a solution to be had, as Hercules suggested.

It’s two days before he manages to corner Gilbert and talk to him, mumbling through his speech as Gil glares at him and taps his foot. He reluctantly admits to feeling the same way as John, though, feeling the same frustration and helplessness that comes with Alexander refusing their help. It’s another full day until they manage to talk to Alexander, because not only is he avoiding John but he’s also thrown himself head first into work, probably in an effort to a) not have to talk to John and b) distract himself from his cramps.

They catch him one evening in the kitchen, when Alexander is fresh from the shower, his skin glowing and his hair damp, and John and Gilbert sit on either sides of the table and push a chair out for him to take a seat.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s this about?”

“We just need to talk to you,” Gilbert says, his voice soft, and John watches how Alexander relaxes a little. If he’d said it he knows Alexander’s hackles would have shot straight up and he’s struck by how glad he is that Gil is here and seems to know what he’s doing, because John feels a bit like he’s been treading water for four days straight and is on the verge of giving up and taking in lungfuls of liquid just to get it all over with.

Alexander takes the seat and glances between the two of them warily. “What’s this about?” he says again and Gil kicks John under the table.

“It’s about that, uh, conversation we had a few days ago,” he winces because the word ‘conversation’ should really be replaced with the word ‘argument’ and both he and Alexander know it. Alexander, to his credit, doesn’t point it out, but his lips thin.

“Go on,” he says and John bites his lip.

“I was a jerk,” he says in a rush, “And I’m sorry about it, but my feelings on the matter aren’t just going to go away so you’ll have to keep on telling me when I’m being an asshole about it. I still want to help you, though.”

“We love you,” Gilbert joins in, “And we want to look after you, and we want to make you happy. Money doesn’t have to come into it-”

“-But that would be easiest,” John says stupidly and Gilbert kicks him again. He makes a wounded noise and is startled when Alexander lets a laugh slip.

“You guys really want this, huh?” he says, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“We figured it could be like, a once a week thing, something small like paying for dinner or buying you some new clothes that you need, or,” he says hesitantly, “A new binder? And you can stop us if we go too far or spend too much.”

“How about,” Alexander says slowly, “Once a month, for both of you, and you let me pay some of the rent for this place.”

John and Gilbert exchange a look. “How much is some?” Gilbert asks.

Alexander shrugs. “The same as what my accommodation fees would be if I were still in the dorms,” he says blithely and John wants to say no, wants to protest, because part of the reason why they insisted Alexander move in with them was because the prices for those crappy dorm rooms were extortionately high, but he bites his tongue.

“We can hash it out later,” Alexander says, rolling his eyes like he knows what’s running through John’s brain right now. He leans forward and slides his hand over John’s, and the other over Gilbert’s, and squeezes them both.

“I love you both so much,” he says and John feels Gilbert’s foot nudge gently at his own, a small gesture that makes him swallow, hard.

“If we’re doing this,” Alexander continues, “There’s also something else I want from you.”

John twitches, wary, but Alexander just grins and says he’ll tell them later, that there’s a bed with fresh sheets and he’s all good to go, that he’s missed them and he’s super horny right now. John doesn’t even hesitate, scrambles up with Gilbert and herds Alexander into the bedroom, laughing when they trip over each other’s feet, uncoordinated and eager.

Alexander’s only wearing his towel which very quickly gets discarded, John and Gilbert’s hands eager on his warm, damp skin. He giggles and wriggles on the bed, dragging his hands up Gilbert’s shirt, biting his lip so coyly that John’s disappointed when Gil is the one to capture his lips, not him. He decides to rid himself of his clothes in the meantime and when he looks back up both Gil and Alexander are staring at him with dark eyes and smirking and John feels himself shiver all over.

He ends up on his knees, ass up and shoulders down with his head between Alexander’s spread thighs, Gilbert’s fingers in his ass as he moans into Alexander’s cunt and tries his best not to come. Gil’s tapping on the inside of his thighs occasionally, sharp smacks, every time John gets too distracted by the movement of his fingers, the thick way they fill him and stretch him out, to continue licking at Alexander’s folds. Alexander doesn’t seem to mind, keeps laughing breathily every time John gets overwhelmed and forgets how to move his tongue and lips, but Gilbert is relentless and unforgiving.

“Come on, come on,” he gasps, “Get _in me._ ”

Gilbert tuts, a disappointed noise, and smacks John’s ass with a sharp crack. It’s Alexander who yelps like he’s been hit, but that might be because John just bit down on his thigh, eyes rolling back at the keen pain. He wishes, briefly, that Gilbert will get the wooden paddle out and mark up his bare cheeks but they don’t tend to do that shit with Alexander around and this isn’t about him anyway.

“Not until I see our Alexander come, you owe him that at least,” Gilbert murmurs, unconsciously reflecting John’s own thoughts. John moans, laps at Alexander’s slit, wriggles his tongue inside of him and licks him out. Alexander’s hands creep into his hair and fist the curls and John moans, licks up to his clit and flicks his tongue over the bundle of nerves, hears Alexander shout.

He brings his hands up to Alexander’s thighs, shaking, because Gil’s just added another finger and it’s all he can do to not push his ass back and beg for relief. He uses his thumbs to part Alexander’s folds and licks in broad strokes, feels his thighs quiver around his head. Alexander just seems to get wetter and wetter on his tongue and John moves one hand up to rub at his clit whilst pointing his tongue and fucking it messily into Alexander, tasting his warmth all through his mouth and swallowing it.

Gil takes this moment to twist his three fingers inside John, spread them, and press his tongue in alongside. John whines into Alexander’s cunt and his dick throbs and Alexander seizes up around his tongue, whimpering high pitched, and he flutters and shakes and John tries to fuck him through it but Gil’s tongue is unrelenting and slick and filling him so well. He can’t decide between pushing his face further into Alexander or pushing his ass back into Gilbert.

Alexander pushes him away eventually, twitching, and John takes a deep breath and stares up at him. Alexander’s got his head thrown back, long dark hair splayed all over the pillow, chest tinted pink, his ribs heaving, eyes closed and eyelashes dark and wet against his cheekbones. John whimpers, drags his eyes down, down, down, Alexander’s body, to the swollen redness of his cunt, still shining with his slick. John gives him another quick lick and Alexander twitches, groans, pushes him away again.

He’s jolted when Gilbert pulls his fingers and tongue out of his ass, left clenching around the emptiness, but Gil drapes himself across his back, chest pushing on John’s back, breath hot and heavy in his ear, and the head of his bare cock presses against John’s hole. John’s breath hitches and he pushes his ass back but Gil smacks him again, making him cry out, and tells him to wait. John wiggles, impatient, whines into Alexander’s thighs. Alexander strokes through John’s hair, shushing him.

“Give him what he wants,” Alexander says, looking over John’s head to make eye contact with Gil. “Look how desperate he is for it,” and John whines again, kissing sloppily at Alexander’s thighs.

Gil grunts, fixes his hands tight on John’s hips, and slams into him. John gasps instantly, reduced to breathlessness at the way Gil fills him, stretches him, how he gives him no time to adjust before setting a punishing pace that smacks his hipbones against John’s cheeks with each thrust. He pants into Alexander’s skin, feeling hazy, every thrust pushing him up a few centimetres until he’s got his lips on Alexander’s clit again and Alexander’s hands are tightening in his hair, nails sharp.

“Shit, Jack,” he moans, thighs trembling and John groans right back, loud, sending vibrations through Alexander’s core.

Gil brushes Alexander’s hands out of his hair and grabs a fistful himself, pulls John up until he’s kneeling, flushed back to chest with Gil, his cock standing hard and straining in front of him, untouched as of yet.

“Use him,” Gil says, accent thick. He keeps pushing his cock up into John even though the position is more difficult now, but he wraps one arm around John’s waist to keep him in place. John sags back into him, head lolling, and lets himself be used.

Alexander licks his lips and scrambles up to kneel in front of John. John guesses that Alexander wants to ride him, that he’ll finally get some relief around his aching length, that he’ll have the warmth and wet and soft of Alexander all around him and the hard bruises from Gilbert at his back.

He slumps, spreading his thighs wider in order to lower himself so Alexander can climb on top easier, and it forces the angle of Gil’s cock inside him to change. They both groan, John’s needy and Gilbert’s more of a growl than anything. He sinks his teeth into the meat of John’s shoulder just as Alexander positions himself over him and John cries out, but Alexander doesn’t lower himself down, doesn’t sink his eager heat around him, rather he places his hands on Gil’s shoulders and uses it to balance himself as he rubs his clit over the head of John’s swollen cock. John almost screams in frustration, having Alexander so close but still only teasing him.

His hands fly up to squeeze at Alexander’s waist, push his thumbs into the swell of his belly, and Alexander slips and drags his slit along John’s cock. He gasps, a pretty noise, and slowly does it again and again and again. Every now and then, John’s cock will catch on his hole and they’ll both jolt, John’s hips twitching upwards, and every time Gil bites him hard and fucks into him mercilessly.

“Stay still,” he breathes and John squirms, overwhelmed. “Let him use you.”

Alexander grins and leans in to kiss Gilbert over John’s shoulder, the slick sounds of their mouth together coupled with the slap of Gil’s hips on his cheeks making him shudder. It brings Alexander closer to him and John can feel how wet he is, how it’s spread to his thighs and rubs up against John. It's so hard to stay still that he shakes with it.

Alexander comes again like that, rubbing himself against John’s length, and Gil follows him close after, spilling into John hotly and lazily thrusting his hips a few extra times to drive his come in deep, making sure John feels extra dirty.

They don’t let him come. He whines and pouts and throws a strop but they ignore him, clean him and each other up clinically. Gil tells him to keep his hands behind his back and John barely complies, a pointed look from Alexander the only thing that keeps him in line. They spread out over the pillows and make out lazily until their lips turn red and swollen, and John watches still kneeling on the bed with his cock still hard, panting and wanting and feeling like he’s going to die, just a little bit.

His erection wanes eventually, flagging, and Alexander pulls him down to cuddle, Alexander in the middle and John and Gil curled up around him. John buries his face in his hair, breathes in the fresh scent of his honey shampoo, and lets himself drift.

He’s awoken from dizzy dreams to wet heat around his cock, and he immediately arches up and tips his head back, gasping, clutching frantically at the sheets. When he gets enough wits about him to look down, Alexander is grinning up at him wickedly around his mouthful, eyes dark and playful, with Gil’s fingers in his hair, keeping his mouth down around John’s length.

They’ve talked about this before, sex while asleep, and John had thought it would be hot, but it’s not something they really do often, even though they’d all given permission and agreed upon it in the past. Usually, it’s Gil who has his way with John early in the morning when John’s too blurry to really get hard but enjoys the way Gil fills him up anyway. Once, he’d woken up to Alexander pushing himself into John, the straps digging into his ass, while Gilbert encouraged him with soothing words and lines of sweet sounding French.

It’s a nice surprise to wake up this way. It’s been a while since they’ve last done this and John’s blood is still running hot from last night’s denial and it doesn’t take much to bring him up to the edge. Alexander’s mouth is all tight heat and wet suction, his gag reflex basically non-existent whereas John and Gil usually really have to work at it, and he takes John into his throat over and over and swallows.

Just when John feels like he’s going to pitch over the edge, Gil removes his hand from Alexander’s hair and grabs John’s balls, squeezing, cutting off his orgasm as it builds. John chokes on a whine, flails his hands, too sleepy to get a proper punch in at Gil. Alexander hums around his cock and carries on sucking and swallowing and Gil takes his hand away, only to return it when once again John’s back arches and he feels the rush of his orgasm tingling at his spine.

Alexander pulls off, giggles, wipes his mouth and then goes about dragging his tongue across the head of John’s cock, dipping into his slit, playing with his corona. He sucks it in sometimes, gives him a few inches of wet heat, before backing off again. John twists and thrashes and pants, and Gil’s hand comes hard on his hip to hold him down. Alexander fists his hand around his length, jacking up and down slowly and thoroughly so his fist meets his lips where they’re wrapped around the head with every pull. John’s eyes roll back and Gil’s hand moves to pull at his balls again, denying him.

Gil takes his hand away at the exact moment that Alexander chooses to sink his mouth down John all the way to the root and swallow, tightening his throat, and John comes finally in a blind rush of relief and ecstasy, his mind filling with static and his dick throbbing over and over.

Alexander pulls off, swallows, wipes his mouth of any stray white seed, then turns and kisses Gil, hot and dirty. Gil, in turn, crawls up and kisses John, licking into his slack mouth and passing on the lingering taste of John’s come from Alexander’s tongue.

John whines, bats at him to push him away, and Alexander laughs and flops down on top of John, chest to chest, while Gil props himself up beside them and returns his hand to Alexander’s hair, playing with the dark strands.

Alexander hums. “Good boy,” he says, and John’s not sure if he’s talking to him or to Gilbert, but he doesn’t care much. Alexander is a welcome weight on top of him and he’s loathe to admit it but it’s nice to have Gil stretched out warmly beside him again too. He relaxes into the mattress, sleep creeping heavily onto his eyelids, and drifts.

.

A week later finds John, Gilbert, Alexander, and a only mildly grumbling Hercules spooning soup out to the homeless at a kitchen Alexander introduced them to downtown.

Alexander is glowing, rosy cheeked and chatting to all the people, and John doles out smiles and passing chit chat, ladling out portions, watching Alexander out of the corner of his eye. Alexander talks to all of the people like they’re old friends, and maybe they are, John doesn’t know, but he seems to happy to be here that John doesn’t comment. He’d been buzzing since they’d pulled on their coats and hats and gloves and set off to make their way down here and John doesn’t want to spoil this for him for anything.

He has to admit, this wasn’t what he thought Alexander’s other condition would be. It caught him by surprise, mainly because he didn’t think soup kitchens actually existed outside of old movies, but Gilbert was quick to agree and John followed dumbly, not exactly sure what to expect.

It smells, a bit, and the soup’s really not that great, but it’s warm and there’s bread to go with it and everyone fills the room with happy laughter and camaraderie. There’s some quiet people, hunched over their bowls and peering warily around the room, and John watches how each and every one of them gets approached by Alexander at some point in the night for some surprisingly gentle chit chat and it makes his heart flutter, to see Alexander like this.

Hercules helps them and the rest of the staff clean up, waving them goodbye when they part ways to get to their respective residences. Alexander tangles one hand with John and the other with Gilbert and practically skips the rest of the way home. John trades an amused looks with Gil, sighing happily.

Alexander’s wearing the new gloves Gilbert bought him, the new hat and scarf that John bought him, and he looks cosy and warm, all bundled up, the tops of his cheeks flushed red. John's heart can barely contain all the love he feels in this moment. He leans in and presses a kiss to Alexander’s covered head, which doesn’t even make him stumble in his excited spiel of chatter, but Gilbert smiles at him and mouths three words, and John squeezes Alexander’s hand, mouths them back in return.

He lets himself be the little spoon that night, Alexander wiggling close to curl up into his chest and Gilbert draping himself over his back, warm and solid and breathing slowly. He feels content, happy, safe, comfortable, all the things he wanted so desperately to push onto Alexander before. He knows now that he doesn’t have to _push,_ he just has to _be,_ to be there for him, for them both, and they’ll always end up happy.

He sighs, breathes in Alexander’s scent. Rests one hand gingerly over Gilbert’s where it’s wrapped around his waist and hopes he won’t get shit for it in the morning. Closes his eyes, and goes to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, leave feedback. i'm tired of over 90% of you ignoring the kudos button.
> 
> title is from six inch heels by beyoncé


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